My legs were left at the Houston airport.

OK, so they weren’t my actual legs, but to me, my wheelchair represents those powerful stems that most humans use to propel themselves through all of life’s activities.

For many people with disabilities, traveling produces high anxiety, as the world of unpredictability expands and the opportunity for something to go wrong skyrockets. When I first became paralyzed at age 12, due to the autoimmune disorder transverse myelitis, being in an airport meant more eyes than usual would be laid upon me, and I’d have to publicly navigate the sting of embarrassment for being different. Not to mention, I was constantly worried about bladder or bowel problems, and had to learn how to develop my own unique system of self-catheterizing underneath a blanket, since I can’t walk up to the airplane toilet.

Because I can’t control the movements of my legs, or the inevitable biological release of my bladder and bowels, I value whatever control I do have. Most of my family and friends say I’m somewhat of a “control freak.” But I imagine I’m like most people living with a disability; I hate being reminded of my limits and I’m desperate to do things myself.

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After touching down in the District of Columbia from my layover flight in Houston around midnight, I waited patiently, as I always do, for everyone else to get off the plane. I started grabbing my carry-on bags and my emotional-support cat, Rally, (yes, you read it correctly: emotional-support cat, but that’s another topic of discussion), and eagerly anticipated the arrival of the aisle chair that would whisk me to my wheelchair. I was exhausted.

I can usually hear the aisle chair being rolled in from the jetway because the design hasn’t been updated in decades; loose buckles that strap in people with disabilities jangle, and always bang against the airplane seats. Instead, I heard somewhat of a commotion brewing just outside the airplane between the flight attendants and ground crew. What was taking so long? Were they talking about me, the only person left on the plane?

Then, my worst traveling fear hit me as the flight attendant, who had so kindly offered my cat some water mid-flight, said: “I’m so sorry, but for some reason, your wheelchair never made it on the flight and was left in Houston.”

A wave of fear, panic, frustration and vulnerability came up from my stomach and beamed out through my eyes. Even though I was surrounded by strangers, I dropped my face into my hands and began to cry. I was immediately flooded with questions over how I’d get to my apartment from the airplane seat I was marooned in, let alone make it to baggage claim with my carry-on items and cat.

As I started to regain composure, I realized: OK, Cody. You can get through this. Things happen beyond our control no matter how prepared we may be. I just need to let go and have others help with this situation.

So for once, I had no choice but to involve others in helping me get from point A to point B. This incident was the airline’s responsibility to fix and I knew the employees would have to help me figure out how to get to my Navy Yard apartment.

I hadn’t felt this level of emotional entrapment since my days spent sweating in rehab, under the care of a physical therapist, who was teaching me how to live my life in a wheelchair. Independence, I have come to understand, isn’t something easily attained, like a certificate of completion for a job well done. It’s something earned after years of labor, in which the physical, mental and emotional experiences get layered on top of one another. But suddenly, I felt like that little girl again, recently paralyzed from the chest down, feeling helpless and full of fear as I rolled around on a gym mat stacking cones.

It’s so easy to take independent mobility for granted. Over time, my wheelchair and body have become one. My chair is the only real thing I rely on to always be there. I depend on my wheelchair to give me the independence I would not otherwise have. I even refer to it sometimes as the friend I never asked for; she has become my emotional crutch, a piece of machinery I have had no choice but to grow connected to. She knows all my secrets.

When people travel, we trust that our items will reach our destination along with us. And just like the countless times before, I trusted the airline to put my wheelchair safely in the belly of the airplane, along with the strollers and other baggage. Alas, the only things that arrived with me were my cat, my carry-on items and my paralyzed body. In that moment, I wished I’d had a back-up wheelchair waiting for me in my apartment, like most people have a spare pair of shoes, but cost and other circumstances had prevented that luxury.

As my swollen eyes grew larger, a group of people gathered around my seat and threw questions at me. Do you live alone? Is there anyone who can help you? How far do you live? How many bags do you have?

I told them I do live alone and that my friends would probably be asleep; some were out of town. The flight attendant then said: “OK Cody, one of our supervisors will help you at baggage claim, get you a loaner wheelchair and arrange for your wheelchair to be on the next flight.”

I transferred into the aisle chair and then into one of the airport’s standard wheelchairs, where I found myself struggling to stay in because of my paralysis level. I was pushed to baggage claim, where I pointed out my bag for the wheelchair handler to get, which I usually do myself. I was then greeted by the supervisor, who was kind and understanding about how upset I was. She located my wheelchair and arranged for it to be on the next flight out in the morning. Until then, she asked if the wheelchair I was sitting in would be OK for me to use. Knowing I had no other option, I said OK, and was wheeled outside, where I had to find a cab large enough to fit the loaner wheelchair I was now in. I couldn’t get on the phone with my mother fast enough and started crying again. Her voice calmed me down as the cab driver reached around with some tissue. Even though the airport loaner wheelchair was not accustomed to my paralyzed body, I made it to my apartment emotionally drained and went to bed.

I woke up the next morning to a phone call from the airline supervisor I’d met the night before. Her update: My wheelchair had arrived but was damaged. Not knowing or understanding the full extent of the damage (she said it was a few loose spokes), I asked her to have her driver deliver it, since I was anxious to get it back. I met the driver in the lobby of my place and was greeted by not just a bruised wheelchair but an unusable one. The frame and back were intact, but four of the spokes were ripped out of the titanium hub.

Now what? I desperately needed to go to the grocery store for food and cat litter, and I also had a capstone class the next day for my master’s degree. My mom and I started strategizing, and we were thankful the airline connected us with a repair company that immediately started helping as well.

By the time I’d received the spare wheels my mom found in her garage and shipped to me (which turned out to be the wrong ones to fit the frame), a week had gone by. My independence was on hold. A dose of depression began to set in, since I couldn’t get to class or roll outside to participate in daily life.

For someone with a disability, the process of traveling on a plane isn’t that much different than it is for the able-bodied majority. I roll up to the ticket counter with my computer bag and purse on my lap, using my wheelchair to push my four-wheeled suitcase. I check in, receive my ticket and get my wheelchair tagged with all the critical information: brand, color and current condition. I enter security, show my ID and ticket, and get in line with everyone else awaiting X-ray of their carry-on items. As others go through the metal detectors or full-body scanners, I, along with my wheelchair (it’s metal), get patted down.

My wheelchair is vital for me to not only survive but thrive in this world. Traveling is one way that I and others are able to thrive; everyone, regardless of ability, should have the right and freedom to see the world. Yet this emotional experience was a stark reminder of why some people with disabilities will not purchase a ticket to go visit family or friends in a distant city.

My hope in sharing this is that the travel industry will be more aware and considerate of what adaptive and assistive devices, like wheelchairs, provide for people with disabilities. If my wheelchair was just baggage, trust me I would have treated it as such from the moment I received it. But because it allows me to live life and help others do the same, it’s a weight I’m proud to carry all over the world.

I wonder: If my wheelchair had a heart, blood and human flesh, would she have been treated with the same respect I receive? Instead, she was forgotten and then perhaps tossed around like baggage by the ground crew, who, for some reason, did not understand what wheelchairs represent for those like me who depend on them.

As I am writing these words, I realize that what I went through is such a small nuisance compared to what’s currently going on in our world today, with so much violence and fear of traveling to see loved ones. We all go through challenges and knock-downs. At least I’m alive and am here to complain about something that, in the moment, felt like a devastating pride shaker. But it’s just another lesson that things happen in life.

Whether it’s trains, planes or automobiles you employ to carry you to visit loved ones or see the world, shed the fear and travel on. You may loose your baggage, but not your spirit, which brought you up to the ticket counter in the first place.

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My Legs Got Left in Houston: Tales From a Paralyzed Traveler originally appeared on usnews.com